Soldier Blue
by s'C'urvy 'K'at
Summary: Real world AU Ch.2: She hadn’t exactly been surprised when Wedge had come pounding on her door at six in the morning, urgently telling her that some crazy drifter had managed to break in and was sleeping off his drug binge in one of the booths.
1. Chapter 1

Yeah, yeah, FFVII AU. Real world AU. Blegh. They're usually not my cup of tea, but it's been nagging at me for a while, and since I've dead-ended on my other stuff (and haven't had any real desire to write anything lately), we'll just see where this goes. No ninjas, no talking animals, no ridiculous advanced tech, and no materia. Just good old-fashioned government cover ups.

* * *

If it hadn't been the dead of night, she probably never would have spotted him. Hell, she was surprised she even managed to recognize him. It had been _ages_ since she'd seen him, and he was a _mess_. Looked like just another down and out fuck-up. Crackhead or wino, begging for a handout in the station, claiming that they had recently lost a family member, were _sick_, needed to money for _food_ rather than their next fix. Whatever.

Had to have been the hair. Even as disheveled and matted as it was, the cornstalk blonde, in that _ridiculous_ East Village Hipster-Punk spike job was instantly recognizable. Back then, nobody in her town had even _heard _of Punk, let alone knew what the fashion associated with it was. But he'd been out there, hair jelled, or sprayed, or _shellacked_ into those crazy points, light blonde bleached even further to a brittle white. Would fight any of the boys that mocked him for it. Stomped on fingers with those oversized steel-toe boots.

It was ridiculous. She hadn't given him more than a passing thought in years, and there he was, slumped against the wall, in a somewhat ragged Marines jacket, camouflage pants tucked into military issue boots. That's right, he'd said he was going to join the army. A lot of the older folks figured that would have gotten him to finally get his head on straight, help him make something of himself.

She shifted uncomfortably, staring at him from about ten feet away, hefting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder and glancing around, hoping to spot a cop or a station attendant, or…

Psh. At three in the morning in Times Square? Fat chance.

Sighing, she approached cautiously, and, once within arms reach she crouched down slightly, reaching out, snapping her fingers in front of his eyes lightly, hoping to stir some reaction from him. He seemed… drunk or drugged or _sick_, she wasn't sure what. She should just leave him, forget she'd ever even _seen him_. Just slip him a few bucks and hope it didn't just end up going up his nose.

But still, after what happened…

He _was_ a familiar face, hometown boy…

She couldn't just…

"Cloud?" The name rolled thick and unfamiliar off her tongue, rusty after years of disuse. Something twisted in her stomach, and in the time it took for him to stir and open his eyes, she hoped; really, truly hoped, that it wasn't him. But then fine blonde lashes cracked open, and…

They _glowed_.

She jerked backwards, nearly tripping over herself and falling. Oh Jesus, what kind of-

He blinked once, staring uncomprehending at her, gleaming eyes feeling like they were boring holes through her.

Blue Curacao. That was all she could think of right then. Blue Curacao under blacklight. Making a Hurricane for that one regular, all noxious blue and-

His eyes seemed to focus, and his hand was on her wrist in an instant, wrist bone grinding uncomfortably under his thumb. She jerked her arm back, trying to reverse the hold, right hand coming up for a nerve pinch, get him to let _go_.

"Let go!" She snarled, catching his gaze, seeing the wild, trapped look he was giving her. He didn't recognize her. Sure, he was easy to remember from the hair, but aside from her much-admired… assets, she was sure there wasn't much else people from back home remembered about her. Nothing that really set her apart. Maybe the accent would have clued him in, but she'd managed to bury that under years and years of 'New Yawk' practice. "Cloud, it's _me_. Tifa Lockhart."

If the change in his death grip was any indication, he remembered the name at least. After all, not like either of their names were very common.

He met her gaze again, seeming to study her, fingers still encircling her wrist. His gaze seemed bleary and unfocused, like he was trying with all his might just to get a good look at her face.

"Is it safe?" He asked finally, confused.

"What?"

"Is it safe now?" Tongue passing rough and raspy over chapped lips. "They left me to die… Zack, he…are they coming _back_?"

Oh geez.

He was some kind of PTSD _wreck_ or something.

"Uh… no. No, you're okay." She started uncertainly, swallowing back the lump in her throat. "Look, are… can you walk? Let's get you out of here. Come on." She awkwardly maneuvered her arm under his shoulders, bracing herself as she straightened, leather creaking over her thighs, forcing his weight up along with her. At least she wouldn't need to fish her Metro Card out or anything. Would only have to shove him through a turnstile when they got out at her stop and shuffled the last few blocks back to her bar. She had enough of a rep that the gang-bangers would probably leave her alone, even burdened down with some spaced-out vet.

She took a tentative step forward, hoping he wasn't so messed up that he couldn't at least stay upright on his feet, master left-foot right-foot. Thankfully, he took a step with her, seemingly still in control of his major motor functions, despite how fucked up and disoriented he was.

Great. At this rate they'd probably make it back by the time Barret closed up for the night. He'd be bristling too, by the time he saw her. Staying out so late, not checking in, bringing in some _stranger_.

At least she'd managed to get her hands on the files they'd been looking for. Had to count for _something_. She could probably even get Jessie to take a look at Cloud when she got off her shift at the clinic. Figure out what was up with his _eyes_; see if perhaps they could swipe him some PTSD meds on the sly. See if it even _was_ PTSD in the first place. Maybe he'd even want to help them, once he came around. After all, state he was in, didn't look like the government was taking care of him.

If only she weren't so desperate for a familiar face. For some little _scrap_ of home.

She shifted her weight, bracing against the wall as they took the small flight of stairs up to the landing, gritting her teeth at the grime and loose plaster rubbing off on her skin as she pushed them up the steps one at a time. Now as long as she didn't lose him going down the steps to the Uptown 1-2-3 platform, they'd be in business. Last thing she wanted to do was end up with a broken neck because he'd lost his footing and pulled her down with him.

However, despite such slow going, they made it down onto the platform without incident. He'd stumbled once, sending her clutching the handrail for the rest of the descent, but that had been the closest they'd come. The platform was all but dead, silent save for the far-off rumble of other lines coming and going, the shrill squeal of a rat scurrying around on the tracks. The air was heavy with dust and smell of half-dried paint, signs taped up over all the pillars confirming what her nose's assumption.

She made her way over to one of the pillars free of a warning and leaned one shoulder against it, the weight of Cloud's body making it an almost painful lean. She'd rather have sat down, but given how sluggish he was being, she'd never get him up and to the doors in time before their train was already pulling out of the station.

She set herself up for a rather silent wait, wishing she had her hands free to dig for her iPod. The trains ran pretty erratically from midnight to five, and even before then, the 1 ran slow as Hell. She was praying that the 2 or 3 showed up first. She'd take the 1 if needbe, but she was feeling antsy. Had been ever since she'd gotten her hands on the disc. Just wanted to get back to the bar, hand it off to Biggs and be _done_ with it. And it wasn't like her stray was going to be much for conversation.

She sighed, blowing at a few strands of hair hanging in her eyes. She'd changed back into her normal, well, _street_ clothes, anyway, after the job, her 'sneaky' outfit tucked away in her messenger bag. Felt conspicuous now, _obvious_. On her own, young woman in leather pants and a cut-off tank wouldn't raise too many eyebrows. People would mostly shrug her off as a club-kiddie and not give her a second thought. But dragging around somebody who seemed high as a kite, well, that just _screamed_ for a 'random' bag search from a cop.

_Oh, that set of lockpicks, the spare outfit and mask? Well, I just so _happen_ to be into bondage. The super-duper borderline _disgusting_ kind_, _officer._

Great, _now_ she was getting paranoid. She just had to stay calm. After all, the only other person on the platform was aaaaaaaaaaaaall the way at the other end and seemed even worse off than Cloud.

Cloud shifted, falling more heavily against her right shoulder, his head lolling forward as he mumbled something she couldn't make out.

"You okay?" She asked, panic rising slightly. "You're not going to be sick are you?" Oh jeez, if he puked on her boots… "Hey, take it easy, we're almost home." Her hand came up, squeezing at his shoulder lightly, trying to be comforting.

She stared ahead, mentally willing the train to just. Hurry. Up. A rat, maybe the same one, maybe a different one, shrilled again from down in the tunnel. She tore her eyes away from the old, peeling warning sign that said rat pesticide had been sprayed (four years ago) and craned her head to the right, peering past Cloud's shoulder toward the empty gaping mouth of the subway tunnel.

She braced her free hand against the back of the pillar and rocked forward on the balls of her feet, squinting, waiting for that yellowish wash of light to hit the curve of the tunnel, give her something to wait for. She did that plenty, any time the train was taking too long. Just watched the tunnel wall, waiting, waiting, _waiting_.

She sighed again and tightened her grip around Cloud's shoulder, turning her head against his arm, sighing. She wanted a cigarette. Wondered idly if a station attendant or cop would magically appear if she managed to fumble her pack out and light up. Better not risk it. She didn't want-

"You doing okay, honey?"

A voice literally _sliced_ through her thoughts, causing her head to jerk up, silly surprised gasp barely choked back. A man was standing there, leaning casually against the other side of the pillar, unbuttoned blazed, untucked dress shirt. Almost led her to peg him as a business man that stayed around downtown after the markets closed to have a few, but the marks on his face, the ridiculous chemical-red hair made her think otherwise. They'd never let somebody like _that_ work on Wall Street. Could've worked for Conde-Nast or something avant-garde, but… yikes. He was looking down at her in a way that didn't match his bright, easy smile. He was taller than her, positively _looming_, given her weighted down stance. And… he was looking down her shirt.

Ugh.

She'd have no problem shoving her cargo off and taking a swing at him if she had to. What a fucking _pig_.

"Was a lot better before you came wandering over." She sighed, glancing over at Cloud quickly. His eyes were closed, thankfully. She didn't want Mr. Eccentric Creepazoid asking any questions.

One eyebrow piqued, corner of his mouth creeping up a little further. Great, he was _amused_.

"Now, now," He chastised smoothly. "No need to get your hackles up, honey. Just wanted to be a good Samaritan. Your boy toy doesn't look so hot."

"He's drunk." She answered almost automatically, frowning at how easy and automatically the lie came. "Military man can't hold his booze."

"Ah ha, so _this_ is the stock we're sending overseas these days. Glad to see we're in good hands." He smirked, taking in the admittedly ragged sight of the blonde.

"Oh fuck _off_, why don't you?" She snarled, irritated. "Looks like you're too busy being a 'look at me' art-fag to even care about what's going on over there."

He glanced away, as if throwing a 'can you believe this broad?' look to an invisible audience, before glancing back down at her, most likely just to try and take another glance into her cleavage.

"Mm-_hmm_? And where's your 'Support Our Troops' jelly bracelet, little miss?" He asked, reaching over and flicking lightly at the hand still on Cloud's shoulder. She was about to spit a curse at him, shove Cloud off and just _wale_ on that irritating, smirking face, when she caught the glint of light rounding the corner in the express tunnel.

Thank _God_. As long as this irritating little shit didn't take the same car as them, maybe she'd finally, _finally_, be able to get home and put an end to this night. She couldn't take much more.

"Believe me, I'm _much_ more proactive than that." She snapped, scowling at him.

"Oh, I can see." He gave her a mocking little salute as she pushed away from the pillar, leading Cloud toward the edge of the platform. "Supporting our Troops on the way home from the bar; how noble."

She rolled her eyes in disgust, throwing a middle finger up in his direction as she laboriously maneuvered them over the threshold of the train car, dumping Cloud onto a seat, taking a handrail for herself.

_Next stop, Fifty-ninth Street._

"Catch you around, honey!" Mr. Chemical-red dye job called from where he was still standing, hands shoved into his pockets. He gave her a wink, smirking again as she rolled her eyes in disgust. Loser probably thought he was being _charming_.

The doors slid shut with the requisite _bing-bong_ of warning, and she let her shoulders slump, bringing her free hand up to pinch at the bridge of her nose. The off-yellow of the train car lights always gave her a _terrible_ headache when she was tired. Dry ache just behind her eyes.

"What a fucking _douchebag_." She muttered to nobody in particular. She and Cloud were alone in the car, thankfully, and she hoped it would stay that way. She finally dropped her hand away, hooking her thumb in her belt loop. Glancing down, she found those unnatural blue eyes looking up at her. Confused again, like he couldn't understand what she was doing there.

"Is he following us?" He hissed, voice slurring. "That…_guy_."

"Who, that guy that was leering at me? You _know_ him?" She leaned down a little, so they were eye-level "Were you in the Marines with him?"

"He was at the fire. Clean-up..."

"What, some kind of oil fire?" She'd read how there'd been fires on oil fields over in Iraq. Nasty stuff, could burn for _days_. "Over in Iraq?"

But as soon as the moment of clarity had come, it was gone just as fast, leaving him staring off to the side blankly, hands to his forehead. She just stared down at him for a long minute, before sighing, resting her head against her raised arm. She just hoped she wasn't making a mistake, dragging him home like this. For all she knew he could very well be just a crackhead, coming down off a bad high or something.

But it seemed… different than that. Drugs, yes. But like he'd _been_ drugged, rather than just been _taking_ drugs. He needed _help_.

Like she could do _anything_ aside from get some pills and pray he wasn't going to stab them all in their sleep.

"Been a while, huh?" She muttered wryly, not expecting, and not receiving, any response. She reached out, brushing at the few pieces of hair that were long enough to flop down in his eyes. "Gonna have you all back to normal in no time."

The words fell hollowly from her lips, and they stayed like that for the duration of the ride, Tifa petting absently at his hair, Cloud just staring off into the darkness outside the subway car.

* * *

Welp, since the first chapter's out of the way, it should be smooth sailing from here on.


	2. Chapter 2

This is probably the soonest I've ever posted a second chapter to something. Sort of cathartic. Does anybody even still read FFVII fanfiction (is anyone reading _this_?) I've been away a long while, and it's starting to seem like the honeymoon's way over. Ah well.

Oh, and just to clarify, this isn't meant to be some kind of social commentary on the government and America today. Just goofing around and seeing how things can fit in a different setting and see if I can keep them pretty in tune with the original storyline.

* * *

"I just _don't_ think it's a good idea." Wedge sighed, sounding like he'd already accepted defeat but just wanted to put in his two cents regardless. "You know we can't let anybody get wise to us, even if you think he's a friend."

She nodded along from where she was leaning against the bar, eyeing the subject of their conversation warily. She'd gotten back to the bar later than she'd anticipated, not having run into any trouble, but still slowed down trying to drag Cloud along with her.

Barret and the others had all gone to bed by then, so she had shoved him into the booth with the least amount of duct tape holding the split vinyl together, crammed a pillow under his head, then went to bed, making sure to lock her door and take the cashbox with her from the register just to be safe.

She hadn't exactly been surprised when Wedge had come pounding on her door at six in the morning, urgently telling her that some crazy drifter had managed to break in and was sleeping off his drug binge in one of the booths. He'd been frantic, had gotten out the _shot gun_ for Christ's sake, and hadn't been soothed at all by her explanations.

Of course, reassuring him that Cloud wasn't a threat, and that he was somebody she'd kind of known from back in her hometown, but hadn't seen or heard from him in _seven years_, and had brought him back to the bar because he seemed sick, and that she couldn't just leave him there wasn't one of the most glowing recommendations she could really offer.

"You're just lucky _I_ found him in here and not Barret." He muttered as they stood there and Cloud-watched, Tifa nodding and stifling a yawn against the back of her wrist. The coffee maker burbled and spat as if in agreement, and she just sighed, grabbing her pack of cigarettes and flipping open the lid, dipping her head to clamp down on one and pull it free. She thumbed the spark wheel of her lighter lazily for a moment before lighting up, paper crackling on the first drag.

"Yeah," She chided in a burst of smoke "You're smart enough to run for back-up rather than shoot first and leave us with a body to dump in the Hudson."

He wasn't mollified by her comment, and his frown just deepened further.

"Look, I know you think you're doing a noble thing here, but we aren't a methadone clinic. We can't help a druggie-"

"I said he seemed _drugged_, not _on drugs_." She cut in to clarify, as if it were the most important distinction in the entire universe. "I think he's got PTSD or something. I want to get Jessie to give him a check."

"Well, that's all well and good, but have you stopped to consider what's going to happen when he comes around? Even if he's not some dangerous coke fiend, we can't afford to have outsiders hanging around. It's not good for our _operation_." He always said it like that, in that same obnoxious 'trying to play it cool, but totally dropping a hint that this is something exceedingly important, and oh I'm so scandalized you've even forced me to remind you about it' way. At least he just stuck mostly to the financial end rather than the technical.

"Then we just play it cool for a bit. Besides, I got us enough dirt on my run yesterday to keep Jessie and Biggs busy for a good month at the least." Another drag and release on the cigarette, and her eyes narrowed at the way he eked out a little cough and waved dismissively at the smoke filtering towards him. "I'm not going to blab about AVALANCHE as an _ice-breaker_."

Silence hung between them, broken by the staccato little pops from the coffee maker, piddling drips as the pot filled. Finally, she turned, groping underneath the bar to dig out the ash tray sitting back there. It had been the only one she'd kept after smoking in bars had been outlawed, chunk knocked out of the heavy glass from when a patron had hurled it at his girlfriend's head during a fight. She immediately ashed, letting the conversation sit prematurely dead while Wedge fiddled with his outfit, sliding in the collar stays and tugging at the knot on his tie until it was just right. He was a portly man, double-chin and jowls that shook when he talked. His stomach bulged over the top of his belt, last few buttons on his dress shirt looking particularly strained. That was actually how he'd gotten the nickname. Biggs had joked that he'd need a crowbar to wedge himself out of the booth that they kept downstairs, the one they used for their meetings. It was probably from all the business lunches he had. Rich foods, plain laziness, and convenient subway stops left him soft and flabby.

At least _one_ of them was eating well.

He sighed to himself as he grabbed two mugs, filling them and passing one off to her. He took a noisy slurp, leaning forward as to not risk spilling any on himself, before leveling his gaze on her. She chased another puff with a sip of coffee and refused to meet his gaze.

"Look, I just want to make sure you know what you're doing, is all."

"I _always_ know what I'm doing." She replied measuredly. She wouldn't have made it for five years on her own if that weren't the truth. Sometimes, she didn't even know what he was _doing_ in their group. Of course they needed somebody to worry over their tasks, make sure they didn't get too cocky, take too many risks. But when that worry spilled over into _everything_…

His expression fell, and he nodded along, as if chastised into agreeing.

"I know. I just… forget it."

"We can talk about this when you get back from the office. Team meeting, if you want."

Tone implying she'd rather do anything _but_.

"Mm." Glancing at the clock, he swilled down the remains of his cup and snatched his blazer up from the bar top. "Need me to grab anything on the way home?"

"Roach motels, if that isn't out of your way." None of the little bodegas or Pharmacies in a twenty block radius carried the damn things. And she liked to keep her bar _clean_.

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"You should really get some more sleep." He paused at the walk-up, chubby fingers grasping the handle. "You were out pretty late."

She decided not to point out that she _would_ have gotten more than two hours of sleep if _somebody_ hadn't been pounding at her door with the shotgun out.

"Sorry." She drawled, shrugging. "Looks like I'm on guard duty now." Not like she _hadn't_ brought this on herself.

With the light jingle of the bell, Wedge was out the door, leaving her alone, sunlight just starting to filter in through the windows, casting a kaleidoscope of green and red diamonds on the tables and floor. She perched on the closest stool, cigarette burning down until she was sucking filter, and smashed it down into the ashtray until the cherry went out, leaving a sputtering, thin little wisp rising from it. She dug her knuckles against her eyes, scrubbing harshly. Hopefully the others would take it a little more rationally than Wedge.

* * *

"Well, I dunno." Biggs concluded finally, after hearing her out and studying the blonde for a good long while.

"Great. You've certainly assuaged all _my_ fears." She groused from her spot at the table she'd moved to, hunched sleepily, heel of her hand digging against her cheekbone, only thing keeping her from doing a faceplant onto the wood. It was rounding on two, four hours until they opened for business, and Cloud hadn't moved _once_ during her vigil. If this continued, it looked like they were going to have to stash him somewhere before they opened. "I-" Gaping, loud yawn, not even making an attempt to hide it behind a hand.­­­­­­­­­­­­­ "You're taking this _well_."

"What else can I really say? And, hey, check out the rank patch. Looks like he was up there." He shrugged once, nose wrinkling up as he considered it. "Might have some pretty good dirt we could use, if he's pissed off at Uncle Sam."

She tilted her head, leaning shoulder to shoulder with him as she squinted, considering it. She really had no idea what military rank the patch on his sleeve indicated, but it seemed pretty ornate. Beyond a Private, that was what she could tell. Probably ought to brush up on that.

"I guess." She replied, unconvinced. She didn't really want to force him into this, even if he could be of some help. "He gets checked out first; _then_ we see what his story is."

After her less than supportive conversation with Wedge that morning, she'd been looking for further input. Barret had left with his daughter in tow at around noon, heading for a day at the Central Park Zoo. Neither had seen the boots sticking out of the booth as they'd left. Jessie _had_ noticed, when she'd gotten in from her night shift, but had merely tipped her head toward him with a questioning glance, getting' long story' as her answer.

"And what if he's not up to snuff? You going to double up the scraps you leave out back for that dog?"

"Give him some money and send him on his way, probably."

"Tif, you know we don't have _that_ much to go around."

"And _I'm_ not suggesting we give him everything we've got. Just enough to get him a bus ticket to wherever, or off-peak out to Long Island. Something like that." She yawned again, eyes falling to her watch. The time that stared back at her was disconcerting. Maybe it would be better if she didn't open. Like _that_ would ever happen. "Look, I need to crash for a bit. Can you check stock and keep an eye on Cloud? Get me up if he comes around."

"You got it." Bright smile warring with the slightly dubious tone, seemingly unconvinced that Cloud actually _was_ going to wake up. "Want Jessie to give him a once-over when she gets up?"

She ran her hands over her face as she kicked her chair back from the table, standing and stretching, arms over her head.

"Mm… nah. Can one of you give me a wake-up at five-twenty? I can talk to her then." She turned away, heading for the door to the back hallway where all their rooms were. They kept it locked from the barside, keep anyone from getting back there during business hours. Her boots thudded quietly across the aging hardwood, slightly warped in a few spots where the roof used to leak. She stared down at the aging leather of her shoes, metal plates cobbling the boots together where they'd gradually started to wear away on the heels and outside edge of the toe-cap. Gotten them at fifteen, shiny cherry-red leather Doc Martens. Good for hiking, even better in a fight. And the plates gave them a little extra _oomph_.

As she shoved the door open and made her way into her own room, she wondered briefly if she should even bother taking them off before falling into bed.

Biggs sighed and palmed his bandanna higher up on his forehead, scraping the bottom of the saucepan with a slightly melted spoon.

He blew, touching his tongue to the side of the spoon quickly, testing. He drew his head back, grimacing.

Scorched. _Lovely_.

Sighing, he dialed down the heat and grabbed a handful of white sugar, tossing it fitfully into the saucepan, hoping to mask it. Every _fucking_ time he tried to cook something. Goddamn second-hand electric stove. Never seemed to heat anything properly, either burning it or taking forever to even heat up. Tifa was the only one that could ever seem to coax a decently cooked meal out of the thing; pity she wasn't on dinner duty all the time.

At least the girls ate whatever was put in front of them, with the restrained politeness of foreign dignitaries. Barret never complained either, mostly because he was the worst offender of the lot of them. Just scowled into his food and went heavy-handed on the condiments, salt forming little snowcaps on blackened chicken. Marlene didn't complain either, mostly because she was at a phase where all she wanted was peanut butter sandwiches, lemon yogurt, buttered noodles, or applesauce. Any meal and every meal, it was most likely going to be at least one of those items. Wedge was the only one that would complain, nose wrinkling as he peeled back the plastic wrap on his leftovers after reheating them in their _ancient_ microwave oven.

It wasn't a glamorous life. But it was… cozy enough. They made do.

That, and the others were trustworthy. He'd met them through rallies, protests and anti-government messageboards. Not that they were anarchists, but they'd all been wronged by the government in some way, government just sweeping it under the rug, turning a blind eye and acting as if _nothing_ had ever happened.

Probably weren't going to make an impact; not as big a one as they wanted, surely, but they wanted to show the public just how badly they were being lied to. Split open the government's belly and let all those horrible secrets and conspiracies and _lies_ to just come spilling out and let everybody see the truth for what it really _was_, not just what they were being spoon-fed.

_Going into the bottom of the fifth, with the Mets down by two-_

He shot a scowl at the radio as he passed it, tinny buzzing from one of the speakers as the announcer droned on and on about the baseball game. He went across the kitchen, really, more turned and took four steps, to get out the dinner plates and silverware, extras for when Barret, Marlene and Wedge eventually made their way back home.

"Hey, Mets up?" Voice from the doorway chirped, and he glanced up, seeing Jessie peeking in at him, hands braced on the frame. She had her reading glasses perched on her forehead, probably wandered up from the basement to take a break from looking over the information that Tifa had gotten them.

"Down by two." He shrugged, seeing her mirror his earlier irritation. "How's Soldier boy?"

"Oh, still out like a light. You burn dinner again?"

His moody silence sent her into a short, bemused fit of laughter, and she reached out, snagging the handful of silverware from him, before ducking back out, door flapping shut behind her. He could hear her rattling around in the barroom, setting places for the three of them. He paused a moment, before finally grabbing one more plate, just in case their moocher would ever come out of hibernation.

Biggs shut off the burners under both pots, dumping the noodles into the colander in the left sink basin, turning the tap on cold, setting the pot into the other basin. He was digging for the ladle in one of the drawers, when he heard something from within the bar. He wasn't really sure what it was, but he stopped, shutting off the radio, listening expectantly. There was a… thud, followed by… he wasn't sure.

"Jess?" He called hesitantly, reaching behind his back, pulling his handgun out as a precaution. He flipped the safety off, hearing no response from her, that shuffling noise continuing.

Shouldering the door open, he was met by the sight of Jessie on the floor, Cloud pinning her down, one hand over her mouth, the other holding a Bowie knife under her chin, face contorted in rage; insanity.

_Jesus, knife, Tifa didn't check him for _weapons?!

She was struggling, one hand fisted in his hair, nails scrabbling, _gouging_ at his face, other hand gripping at the wrist of his knife hand. She screamed, muffled under the hand, twisted and thrashed, kicking at him. Her own weapon was inside her vest, out of her reach.

"Who are you?!" The blonde demanded, frantic, delirious. "Who are you?! Are you with them? I'm not going back, don't you get it, I'm not going _back_ you're not going to put me back in that basement-"

"Get off of her!" Biggs barked, cutting off the blonde's rant. "Tifa!" He shouted over his shoulder, _knowing_ she wasn't a heavy sleeper, hoping she'd get out there fast.

Cloud was staring at him, unfazed by Jessie's struggles, the blood dripping down his face, eyes riveted to the gun trained on him. His lip curled back, eyes narrowing.

But just when Biggs thought he was going to _have_ to fire, Cloud's expression suddenly slackened, and he cringed the blood out of his eye, looking down, staring in mute shock at the sight of Jessie beneath him.

The knife clattered out of his hand, and he scrambled off of her, looking around, frantic look coming back, like he was _trapped_. Looking for anything familiar, anything-

The door at the other end of the bar clattered open, and Tifa dashed out, having obviously quickly pulled her boots on, still in her pajamas, hard lines of brass gleaming dully across her knuckles. She came to a dead stop, only adding to the sudden silent confusion.

"Oh _shit_." She breathed, taking in the scene in front of her, Biggs's gun, Jessie on the floor, the blood all over the blonde's face, the _knife_.

"Tifa?" Cloud said finally, staring at her like he was seeing a ghost. The familiar face seemed to help though, and he relaxed, taking a shaky breath.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me." She nodded, hands up placatingly. She swallowed hard, shooting a glance at her two comrades. "It's okay, we're not going to hurt you, nobody's after you, and-"

"What?"

"You were just shouting that at us." Jessie replied, meekly, staring up at him, but making no move to get up off the floor. "'Are you with them?'" Well, that was paraphrasing it anyway.

He dropped his gaze, hand to the back of his head, fisting in his hair as he mulled it over.

"Jesus." He muttered finally, gaze on Tifa first, before trailing to Jessie and Biggs uncertainly. "Must've had a flashback. I'm not…" He trailed off, just shrugging ineloquently; helpless.

"It's… it's okay. It happens." Jessie ventured finally, pushing herself into a sitting position. She tugged at the hem of her t-shirt, dropping her gaze away from him as she did so. "I probably shouldn't have been leaning over you like that anyway."

Cloud glanced around despairingly again, like he could find something that would make his actions forgivable, take them off edge; get Biggs to take the gun off of him.

"Where am I?" He finally asked, glancing back at where he'd been laid out. Woman hovering over him, backlit by fluorescent, it had just…

"Seventh Heaven. It's my bar." Tifa replied quickly. The silence descended again, and she coughed lamely into her hand, before continuing. "Harlem." She clarified finally. "We're in Harlem."

Harlem? Cloud stared at her, uncomprehending. How did he _get_ to New York City? Let alone run into Tifa, end up in her bar?

She seemed to pick up on it and frowned, hands falling to her hips. She was a mess, hair disheveled, sleep mussed, and heavy bags under her eyes. Looked ridiculous in her pajamas with the clunky over-sized boots on. She turned a dismayed eye on him, swallowing.

"I found you at the Times Square station." She prodded "You were pretty of out of it, so you might not…" She trailed off, waving a hand dismissively.

Again, the silence descended, neither party sure what to say, unsure what was safe ground to breach; if they should take a shot at the elephant crowding the room, ask what the Hell it was that he'd been ranting about, where he'd come from, what had _happened_ to him to put him in such a state.

"I've been sick for a while." Cloud explained after a pause, swallowing hard, dolefully eyeing Tifa; eyes silently begging for her to believe him.

It sounded like a _lie_.

Finally, Biggs cleared his throat, gesturing with his gun toward the discarded knife. He kept his gaze on Cloud though, the blonde refusing to meet his gaze.

"Alright, look. This isn't a great 'nice to meetcha' on either side. But, Jessie works for a clinic, can get you whatever meds you need. Sound like something you'd be okay with? Letting her talk to you later?"

"Yeah, yeah." He mumbled, quick forlorn nod.

"Alright. Well, so long as you let us hang onto that knife for safe keeping, I don't see the harm in letting you stick around for a bit."

Another nod, and he kicked at the weapon, sending it skittering across the floorboards toward Tifa. She knelt and picked it up, keeping her eyes on him as she did so.

As soon as Tifa had her hands on the knife, the tension seemed to dissipate more, Cloud scuffing at the floor with the tore of his boot, like somebody at a party where they didn't know _anybody_.

"So, now that's all settled, you want something to eat?"

"Sure. Whatever." Didn't sound convincing. Also looked like he wouldn't be able to stomach one bite, even without prior knowledge of Biggs's cooking skills; or lack thereof, rather.

Biggs just nodded back, turning and heading back into the kitchen, setting the safety on his gun and securing it in his waistband.

He just hoped things would settle back to normal now, albeit with one more mouth to feed.


End file.
